Spes Patriae
by Lady Eleanor Boleyn
Summary: When Edward of Clarence dies alongside his cousin of Middleham in 1484, and Anne Neville escapes both death and Bosworth by the skin of her teeth, no one can imagine the long-term effects on English history. Inspired by a discussion on Alternate History Discussion.
1. 1484

_Inspired by the thread 'Princess Over the Water' on Alternate History Discussion. Enjoy!_

 _Nottingham,1484_

"Richard."

Richard turned at his old friend's voice, surprised, but not entirely displeased to hear Francis's disregard for protocol. To use his Christian name, rather than any one of the slew of formal address that were his by virtue of his royal estate, spoke volumes for the trust and affection Francis held him in. And St Ninian knew Richard could do with those who trusted him – and whom he trusted in return - around him now, as he tried to re-stabilise the country in the wake of the southern rebellion this past autumn.

"Yes, Francis?"

"This just came from Middleham by urgent courier. I thought you ought to see it at once."

"Thank you," Richard nodded, reaching out a hand for the slim packet Francis was holding out to him and broke the seal.

His eyes darted over the close-written lines. The colour drained from his face and he had to clutch at a nearby chair to keep himself upright.

"Christ," he swore softly.

"Richard? Richard, what is it?"

Alarmed, Francis pulled Richard's hand off the chair and helped him to sit down in it, not at all liking the sudden pallor of his old friend's face. Richard let himself be manoeuvred, every inch of his body suddenly nerveless with shock. The parchment fluttered from his hands and he buried his head in them instead.

"What's happened?"

Francis crouched in front of Richard, trying to read the blankness in his eyes. When Richard finally lifted his head, it was as though he'd aged ten years in the span of as many seconds.

"It's the boys, Francis. My Ned and his cousin of Warwick."

"What about them?" Francis pressed, knowing even as he spoke that the news could not be good. Good news would not have rendered Richard this pale.

"They're dead."

The words were simple, starkly so, Francis thought later, but then, Richard had never been one for beating around the bush. And besides, no amount of pretty words could dress up the devastating impact this one simple fact would have on the English Succession.

"Dead?" Francis echoed, "Both of them? How?"

"Measles, so Lady Harrington writes. Young Warwick got it first, but you know how fond Ned is of his cousin. By the time they'd realised how serious the boy's illness was, he'd already passed it on to Ned."

Richard sighed, rubbing his hand over his face, "I swear, Francis, sometimes I think I'm cursed. I nearly lost my northern lands when young George died, Buckingham betrayed me after everything I'd done for him, and now, in one fell swoop, I lose not only my own son, but my brother's as well, my next best heir."

Francis didn't know quite what to say to that. In the end, he didn't say anything. A few seconds later, Richard exhaled.

"I'd better go and tell Anne. God knows how she'll take this. She doted on Ned and young Warwick was one of the few reminders she still had of her sister."

Without another word, he rose to his feet and forced himself out of the door, striding towards the Queen's apartments before he could lose his nerve.

* * *

Anne's bedchamber was shuttered, admitted neither light nor cheer. He signalled and behind him, a torch flared into life. Anne didn't stir as he approached the bed. Long, loose hair trailed limply over a bared shoulder. It was uncombed, dulled to a lifeless brittle brown. Her face was pinched and bloodless, as white as the sheets upon which she lay; her eyes were closed, but the lids looked bruised and inflamed. She looked lost in the vastness of their bed, huddled and still under the weight of silken summer coverlets.

Richard sat down carefully on the edge of the bed. Her lashes lifted.

"Beloved, I'm sorry," he leaned over to touch his lips to her forehead and was taken aback when she turned her face away.

"Anne, are you angry with me?"

She shook her head swiftly, vehemently. Her face was pressed into the pillow and her voice so muffled, so indistinct, that he had to strain to hear her words.

"No. I'm angry with myself, Richard, not you."

"Why? What on earth can you be angry at yourself for?"

"I should have been there! We both know Ned was never the strongest. I should have been there to help Lady Harrington nurse him, and to nurse Bella's Edward too. But I thought my place was at Court, at your side, to be your Queen! But if I'd been there, if they'd known a mother's touch as they fought the disease, the boys might have lived! I might have saved them!"

"You don't know that! Anne, you can't know that. You've done nothing wrong, dearest, I swear. I swear."

Richard put his hand on Anne's bared shoulder. She stiffened, but didn't pull away. After several long moments, she rolled over to look up at him.

"Forgive me," she pleaded.

The pain in her eyes, in her voice, cut Richard to the quick. "Forgive? Forgive what, Anne? I don't understand."

Tears started to her eyes. She fought to hold them back for just a little longer, "I've failed you."

"Anne, that's not so."

"It's my duty to give you a son, multiple sons. You have the right to expect that of me. Yet I haven't. All I ever managed was to give you Ned, and he was never strong. And now he's gone. He's gone. I've failed you, Richard, I've failed you."

Richard pulled her up; wrapped an arm around her and turned her in to face his chest, nuzzling her dark blonde hair.

"No, Anne," he said softly, "No, that's not true. You haven't failed me at all. You gave me the best of sons. The best. His death is not your fault. It's just the way things are. Some children aren't meant to live to grow up. You know that. Your sister buried two, did she not? My mother, God save her, buried six of us before our time. She grieved them all, but she never blamed herself for what she could not help. So don't you do it either. Grieve for Ned, for Edward, that's only natural, but don't blame yourself for what you cannot help."

Burying her face in his shoulder, she wept fiercely, even as he tried to wipe her hot tears away with the pads of his fingers and kissed her wet lashes.

"Hush," he said, "Hush."

* * *

Lady Stanley was on her knees in the chapel, praying for guidance. She didn't want to rejoice over the little Prince's death, not truly. It was unchristian to rejoice over another's misfortune after all. Besides, the Queen was a good woman, even if she was rather blindly loyal to that usurping husband of hers.

On the other hand, however, there was no denying that with the little Prince and the young Earl of Warwick dead, two major obstacles had just been removed from her Henry's path. With all the male members of the House of York either dead or presumed to be so, no doubt it wouldn't be long before the time was right for Henry to return to England and claim the throne that was his by rights.

Of course, he would have to survive the next few months first. No doubt 'King' Richard would redouble his efforts to secure both him and Jasper, to lure them out of Brittany and into his clutches, especially now that Henry had made that oath to marry the eldest York girl and unite their warring families when he assumed the throne. That had been a stroke of genius on his part, the one good thing to come out of the shambles of the October rebellion. It had bolstered his claim, made him a far more credible figurehead for those disaffected by Richard's reign who still adhered to the House of York.

At the same time, however, Henry's new credibility made him more vulnerable to the machinations of the other great lords around him. Margaret wouldn't put it past the Bretons to sell him to 'King' Richard, if they thought they could gain any advantage by it.

Perhaps she should write and warn Henry of this, warn him to fly to France before it was too late. Oh, she wasn't meant to communicate with him, of course not, but Urswick would find a way to smuggle her letter out for her, she was sure of it. No one ever looked twice at chaplains. It was part of the reason she so often entrusted delicate matters to men of the cloth.

Her mind made up, Margaret murmured a final Lord's Prayer, crossed herself and rose, already crafting the letter in her mind as she left the chapel.


	2. December 1484 - March 1485

_This was originally meant to be longer, but the last line just seemed such a perfect ending that I decided to cut it here instead. Enjoy!_

 _December 1484_

"I never thought I'd say this, but Bess and Cecily are coming to Court for Christmas," Richard thrust the scrawled missive beneath Anne's nose as she sat sewing in the window embrasure of her solar, trying to eke out the last vestiges of the weak winter sunlight.

She looked up, "Bess and Cecily? Coming for Christmas? So. Their mother has finally decided to accept your olive branch, has she?"

"It would seem so. Perhaps that dratted oath I was forced to make had some effect on her after all." Richard sighed. "Are you sure you're all right with them coming, Anne?"

"Of course," Anne's eyebrows went up, "Why wouldn't I be?"

"Well… It's just… it's not even a year since the boys died. Won't their presence be a reminder of everything we've lost?"

"Bess and Cecily are hardly children, Richard. If it was Anne and Bridget, maybe, or Bella's Meg, but those two are women grown, not little girls. Besides, we need to have the family together this Christmas. We need to present a united front, after everything that's happened in the past twelve months."

"A united front?" Now it was Richard's turn to arch an eyebrow, "Really? With Bess pledged to marry the stripling who dares to lay claim to my crown?"

"Oh, honestly, Richard! That's hardly Bess's fault. He has pledged to marry her, not the other way around. Bess is guilty of nothing but being a dutiful daughter. Bring her to court, treat her as you would any other of your nieces and find a husband for her. That's the easiest way of drawing the sting out of Tudor's barbs. If he can't marry Bess, then that's half his legitimacy, at least, gone in one fell swoop. And it would remind Lady Grey that you are a man of your word when you are given reason to be."

Richard hesitated. He turned on his heel, and strode across the room to the fruit bowl that stood on a low table in the corner. He picked up a bunch of grapes and fiddled with them, pulling them off the stalks one by one as he chewed his lip in thought.

"You're right," he said at last, "Little though I like it, you're right. We do need to present a united front this Christmas. And the girls are popular enough with the people. No doubt the Londoners will be delighted to see them out of sanctuary at last."

"Exactly," Anne tipped her face up to him as he crossed back over to stand behind her chair. Laying down her sewing, she reached up to touch his cheek, "You're doing the right thing, Richard, really. I'll have Bess and Cecily gowns made out of the same cloth of gold I was going to use for myself. No one can say we're not doing right by the girls if they're wearing the same dresses as I am, can they now?"

"You, Anne of Gloucester, are a veritable miracle," Richard exhaled, and reached down to press his lips to her brow, "What did I ever do to deserve you?"

The briefest of shadows crossed Anne's face, "I'm hardly a miracle, Richard. I just remember what it's like to be a veritable Princess one day and a virtual nobody the next. Those girls must be reeling with everything that's happened. Fine dresses for Christmas is the least we can give them."

* * *

" _I should never have had those dresses made,"_ Anne couldn't help the thought that sprang into her mind as she watched Bess and Cecily whirling through a carol dance with their de la Pole cousins.

Oh, she couldn't deny the girls looked beautiful in them, Bess especially. She had the vivacity and confidence to carry off such a bold colour. She carried herself in just the way one had to in order to be able to wear that kind of a gown. She'd had that skill, that charisma, practically since she could walk.

But that was precisely the problem. Anne didn't have that vigour. She never had done, not even in the prime of her youth. She'd been too slight, too sweet-natured. And this year, with her grief for Ned and Edward still stalking her, she suffered all the more for the comparison with her flaxen-headed nieces. She'd lost weight, making her already slight frame look almost hag-ridden. Dark grooves shadowed her eyes, marking the passage of many a sleepless night and highlighting the waxen pallor of her skin.

Beside Bess and Cecily, she knew she looked ill, even deathly so. Oh, no one had said as much to her face, but she heard the whispers behind her back, the mutters behind people's hands when they thought she wasn't looking.

" _Poor woman. She won't last the month. And then we all know who our next Queen will be."_

" _The Lady Bess? The King would never, surely?"_

" _Why not? She's pretty and fertile enough, if her mother's anything to go by. Oh, it wouldn't be proper of course, but then, it's not as if our King cares for what's proper, is it?"_

"Why so glum, Anne? Christmas is meant to be a time of joy," Richard broke into her musings.

She looked up at him. Flushed and panting with his exertions on the dance floor, he held a cup of wine in one hand and his hair was mussed, but not in such a way that it undermined his regal bearing. Indeed, for a moment, Anne thought she'd never seen him look so handsome.

Her heart lurched. Were the rumours right? Was he really planning to replace her with Elizabeth Grey's eldest girl? She didn't want to think so, but he had been spending a marked amount of time with Bess recently, often with only Cecily or Francis for company.

Her eyes strayed again to the dance floor, to where Bess was throwing her head back, laughing at something John de la Pole had said. Her hood had slipped askew in the dance and her blonde tresses tumbled free for all to see. They were lustrous in the candlelight, gleaming with health and vitality, despite the months she had spent in seclusion at the Abbey. So different for Anne's own limp honey strands.

"Anne?" Noting her distraction, Richard followed her gaze to where Bess was standing.

"She's beautiful," Anne couldn't stop the words from slipping out.

"Bess? Yes, I suppose she is," Richard didn't note the wistfulness in Anne's tone, not at first. But then something made him look at her twice.

"Are you jealous? Anne, are you jealous?" He stepped closer, lowering his voice so they couldn't be overheard.

"Who wouldn't be, Richard? Look at her, she's glowing. She's holding those around her spellbound. When I look at her like she is now, I can see why some say you plan to take her as your Queen, if you can persuade me to step aside, or God forbid, if I should die."

"Take Bess as my Queen? What? Anne, that's nonsense! Bess is pretty enough, I'll not deny that, but firstly, she is my _niece_ and secondly, she's little more than a child! What could I want with her? I don't want a child in my bed."

"She's eighteen, Richard. I was her age when we married."

Anne's voice was bleak. Richard stared at her for a moment. Suddenly, impulsively, he put out his hand.

"Come with me," he ordered.

He said the words in an undertone, but they still brooked no argument. Anne stood up automatically, reaching across the table to put her hand in his. He led her from the room, scarcely even stopping to acknowledge the obesiances they garnered as they passed.

No sooner were they out of the great hall than he stooped and swooped her up into his arms.

"Richard! What are you doing?" She shrieked, her heart missing a beat with the shock.

"I don't know where this insecurity has come from, Anne, but I don't like it. I married a Neville lioness, not a shrinking violet. I'm going to show you that you have nothing to worry about."

There was no mistaking the heat in his voice, not given the fact that they had been married a dozen years. Anne flushed and shrieked his name again, startled that he would express his desire for her so publicly.

However, mingled with the shock and the shame was a by now familiar throb of real desire, one that made her giggle like a child as he broke into a run up the great stairs.

* * *

"Now do you believe me?" he asked her, several hours later, when they had awoken from a sated doze and he was playing with her long honey-brown hair, winding his fingers through it as he used to do in the early days of their marriage.

"Hmmm," she murmured sleepily, burrowing closer into his warmth, "You certainly make a very convincing case."

He chuckled lowly and leaned over to kiss her, "Good. Now go back to sleep, my Queen."

* * *

 _March 1485_

All about Richard was chaos. The sun had darkened unexpectedly earlier than morning, sending the more superstitious of his courtiers into paroxysms of panic, screaming that it was a sign, that the Day of Judgement must be nigh. In the midst of all that, Anne's closest ladies had sent to him in a panic, saying that the Queen had collapsed and could not be roused.

Richard's heart had lurched – Ned's death had taken something out of Anne, something vital. And the anniversary of the boys' death was fast approaching. As it did, she seemed to be withdrawing into herself, retreating into a place he wasn't sure he could follow her to. He couldn't help but worry for her. But, given the circumstances, all he'd been able to do was send the physicians to examine her and return to trying to herd the frightened courtiers into some semblance of order.

He was just finding a moment's respite, leaning against a tapestry with a goblet of wine in his hand, when the physicians shouldered their way towards him.

"Sire," They had to shout to make themselves heard, but the grins on both their faces took a weight off his shoulders before they had even properly spoken.

"The Queen?" he demanded.

"Your Grace has no need to worry. The Queen is not unwell. She has simply overexerted herself, given her condition."

"Given her condition?" Richard knew he must sound foolish, parroting their words like this, but in that instant, he couldn't bring himself to care. The last time he'd heard a physician use those words, they'd been trying to tell him… But that had been five years ago, before that last miscarriage had sapped Anne's strength so much. He'd begun to give up hope that he might ever hear them again.

"Are you saying…"

The physicians nodded, "Your Grace would be best employing a midwife to be certain, of course, but as far as we can gather, Her Grace is with child."


	3. June 1485

_June 1485_

Richard met Anne's eye as they squared off in his solar, his face granite.

"You're going to Burgundy and there's an end to it. I'll order you if I must – though God knows I'd rather not do that to my own wife - but you are going to Burgundy."

"Richard, I ought to be here and you know it," Anne lifted her chin, her usually mild blue eyes flashing with a hint of her father's steel, "I am your Queen, I am carrying your heir. You cannot deny that were I to ride with you, you'd make a far more credible showing with the lords. You'd be offering them a future more tangible than the upstart Henry Tudor ever could."

Richard looked Anne up and down. Her six-month belly was pronounced now, straining at the seams of her rich red brocade gown.

"You'll want to get Constanza to add some more panels to that dress," he commented absently, wondering with half his mind how she could actually stand against the weight of it. She was so slight apart from the bulge at her midriff.

"Richard!" Anne protested, "Stop changing the subject! You do this every time we discuss this!"

"Stop resisting me then," Richard snapped, "I've written to Meg, telling her to expect you within the month. You're going and that's that!"

"Oh no, I am not!" Anne tossed her head, her fine honey hair flying out behind her. It was a gesture far more suited to her young nieces or her more charismatic older sister, the late Duchess of Clarence. It was something she only ever did in a temper.

"I can't lose you!" Suddenly the words came easily. Richard flung them at his wife like hunting spears. She froze.

Sensing he had her attention, more keenly than he had possibly ever had it before, Richard exhaled, reaching out to her, though they were too far apart to touch.

"I can't lose you," he repeated, "I can't lose you and I can't risk our boy. If you are here, in England, when Tudor lands, which you know our scouts are saying he could do any day now, then I won't be able to give my full thought to the campaign against him. Not if I have to keep you safe as well. I need to know you'll be safe, that my sister will look after you. Please. Don't fight me anymore. Please."

"My sister lost her child, Richard." Like Richard, Anne seemed to let her anger go in a great rush, replacing it with exhaustion as she slumped against the table, her belly spilling out across the polished wood surface. "The last time a woman in my family went to sea six months pregnant, it was my sister Bella and we lost the child in the seas outside Calais. Don't ask it of me, please."

There was a real, raw grief in Anne's words, and Richard's heart clenched at the sight of her, barely holding herself upright against the strain of the whole situation. He crossed the room and put his arms around her, cupping her belly as best he could.

"I know," he said softly, "I know, and I am sorry, truly. I wouldn't ask it of you if I didn't have to."

"Why can't I just go into sanctuary? Like Elizabeth did?"

A biting retort sprang to Richard's lips, but he forced it back. Anne was scared. She was doing everything she could to support him. She did not need him to be sarcastic. Not now.

"Elizabeth was lucky," he replied at last, "Elizabeth was lucky in the fact that the Lancastrian King Henry was too pious for his own good. He'd never have allowed his soldiers to take a woman and her children out of sanctuary, no matter who they were. Unfortunately, I cannot say the same for his great-nephew and I will not risk you like that."

"Yet you'd risk me on the seas."

There was nothing Richard could say to that. Besides, he had a feeling Anne didn't want him to say anything. Her voice was too bleak to garner a response.

They stood together for several moments. At last, Anne turned in his arms, grunting with the effort.

She put her hand to his stubbled cheek.

"If you really want me to. If you are truly asking this of me, then how can I deny you? You ask so little of me, Richard, considering who you are. How can I deny you?"

"You'll go?" Richard couldn't keep the hope from leaping in his voice.

"How can I deny you?" Anne repeated, pressing her hand into his skin so hard it almost hurt, "All I ask, husband, is that you will pray for me and for our child, as I will pray for you."

A whirl of conflicting emotions knotted in Richard's throat. He had to swallow hard as he answered.

"Always," he murmured, reaching up with one hand to push her hood aside and bending his head to kiss the crown of hers, "Always."

* * *

Richard longed to send his wife away with all the pomp and circumstance that befitted her rank, but the twin circumstances of the country being in dire defensive readiness and her advanced pregnancy made that impossible. Instead, he had to content himself with sending her away with a small contingent of ladies, sailing under her father's old banner of the bear and ragged staff for safety.

So keen was his urgency to get her away, now that she had finally agreed, that the sun was barely up, despite it being the height of summer, when they stood together on the shore at Dover for what they both knew might well be the final time.

He glanced over his shoulder to John, who was just seventeen and the newly-created Captain of Calais, "I'm looking to you to keep her safe, John of Gloucester," he barked, hiding his trepidation at their parting in angry bluster.

Fortunately, John knew him well enough by now not to take his sharp tone personally. He nodded, "Of course, my Lord Father. I'd expect nothing less. God be with you."

"And you, my Lord of Gloucester," Richard replied, before clapping the young man on the shoulder and turning to the ladies clustered about Anne.

"Kate, Constanza, I look to you to have the greatest care for the Queen. My sister the Dowager Duchess will aid you where she can, no doubt, but she does not know my Anne as you do, and you've an arduous journey ahead of you. Take care of her, and of my son. That goes for all of you," he continued, raising his voice so that the other ladies could hear his words over the whipping of the wind.

They all nodded and curtsied, but it was Kate, his nineteen-year-old daughter, who knelt before him.

"I ask for your blessing, Father," she whispered.

Richard smiled down at her.

"You have it, Kate, as always," he responded, laying a hand briefly on the top of her hood before gesturing to her to rise and kissing her forehead, "Godspeed."

She nodded and stepped back, ushering the other ladies back with her so as to give Richard some semblance of privacy to say goodbye to his wife.

For a moment, he simply stared at her, drinking her in, trying to commit every whorl of her features to memory.

"Anne…," he began, before giving anything he might want to say to her up as a lost cause. He sank to his knees before her, as Kate had just done to him.

No words passed between them as she laid one hand fleetingly on his bent head, as he took her other hand between both of his own and kissed it. A passionate glance passed between them as he lifted his head and that was enough.

"You'd better go. Godspeed," he said huskily.

"God be with you, Richard," Anne answered.

Releasing her hand, he let her turn to take John's arm and proceed up the gangplank of her ship.

He stood as if turned to stone, watching as the anchors were weighed, the ropes cast off and the sails unfurled. He didn't take his eyes from the ship until the last speck of it had vanished over the horizon. How could he? It was carrying his greatest earthly treasure. He'd be damned if he'd let it out of his sight a moment sooner than he had to.

When he turned his back at last, then, it was not as a husband or as a father. It was a King. A King preparing to defend his realm against all comers.


	4. July-August 1485

_Ghent, July 1485_

"Madam? Pardon the interruption, but there is urgent word from Sluys."

Margaret knew better than to ignore her chamberlain when he spoke in that tone. Breaking off the tune she was strumming on the psaltery, she swung round and took the sealed missive he handed her.

Breaking the seal, she read it, hand to her head to keep an errant blonde curl out of her eyes as she did so.

Her keen blue-grey eyes scanned the flourishing lines. Her chamberlain watched her, keen to know what was so urgent the messenger had half killed his horse to get the letter here. The man was not disappointed. Shrewd politician though she might be, Margaret couldn't restrain a gasp.

"Your Grace?"

Margaret ignored the question, snatching up her writing desk and carrying to the well-lit window seat without a word. She sharpened a quill with a few well-practised strokes and began to write furiously, issuing orders as she did so.

"My brother's Queen has landed, Pieter, and she's almost seven months gone with child. See to it that she's taken to Damme if she can travel, but if not, find her some lying-in chambers in the town. I'll not risk my sister's health anymore than I have to."

She scattered the parchment with sand, sealed it with her personal seal of a crowned rose and held it out, "That ought to meet her expenses for the next few weeks, at least. Send it to Sluys with the fastest horse you can muster. Then give the orders to pack up my household. I'll want to be at Anne's side just as soon as ever I can, understand?"

For a moment, Pieter's eyebrows flickered upward. His mistress seemed to have forgotten that she was a Dowager Duchess of Burgundy now, not a Princess of England. But then, he thought back to the brief months in 1470 and 1471 when Her Grace's brothers Edward and Richard had sought sanctuary in Burgundy after Edward had lost his throne to the vehement Lancastrians. It had been clear even then that the Duchess adored her brothers, would proffer her neck even for the axe if she'd thought it might benefit their cause. No wonder she wanted to be at her sister by marriage's side for her confinement.

Controlling his features expertly, he nodded, "Of course, Your Grace. I'll see it done at once."

Bowing, he backed from the room and left Margaret to her whirling thoughts.

Margaret remained where she was for a few moments, staring absently out at the river that rolled beneath her window.

Unconsciously, her hand went to her heart, to the small enamelled rose she wore pinned to every kirtle. Richard might not have said as much in his recent letter, but she was astute enough to know that Richard's insistence on sending Anne to shelter with her did not bode well for his impending fight to keep the English throne.

"Oh Dickon," she breathed, "Fight, my brother. Fight. If you fight your battle in England, I vow I shall help Anne fight hers here in Burgundy, and God willing, one day we shall meet again victorious."

She inhaled slowly, held her breath for a moment or two and then released it, forcing her shoulders down. Only when she was once more the picture of composure her mother had taught her to be did she rise and go to the door, calling for her handmaidens.

* * *

 _Damme, August 1485_

Anne was as white as snow. Looking down at the younger woman who had her hand in a vice-like grip as she strained and screamed, Margaret sensed the thought pass through her head. A moment later, she corrected herself. Anne was whiter than snow. At least snow had some sparkle to it when it was fresh-fallen. Anne had none. All she had was pain. Pain and a mother's instinct.

In stark contrast to the woman who writhed upon it, the birthing bed was drenched in blood. Linens that had once been snow-white were now as red as the poppies that grew on the poulders every summer. For a moment, Margaret feared that her fragile sister by marriage was about to bleed out in front of her, with nothing to show for her hours of travail.

But then, amidst the pain and the blood and the fear, there came a cry. A high, insistent cry that went on and on, gaining in strength with every passing second.

The midwife looked up from the end of the bed, her brow creased in worry but her jaw split in a wide grin.

" _Het is een jongen! Een goede jongen!"_ she beamed.

Margaret had never learnt much Dutch or Flemish – she hadn't needed either at her husband's French-speaking Court, but she knew enough to know what the motherly woman was telling them.

"A boy! Anne, you have a boy! You have Richard's boy!"

Margaret bent over the bed, gripping the younger woman's hand tight in an effort to hold her attention.

"Did you hear me, Anne? You have Richard's boy. You have his Prince of Wales!"

"Richard," Anne's voice was hoarse and laboured, little more than a thread of sound Margaret had to strain to hear, "Richard. He shall have his father's name. Richard."

Margaret nodded, "Of course, sister. How could he have any other name? His father will be so proud when he meets him. So proud."

She leaned down to kiss Anne's sweat-stained brow, but before she could, Anne jerked upright, issuing another wordless scream of agony.

Margaret's head snapped up and she looked to the midwife in shock.

To the other woman's credit, she had snapped into action at the very first sound Anne had made. Thrusting the still-crying Richard into a hovering maid's hands, and barking guttural instructions too fast for Margaret to follow, she bent once more between Anne's legs.

Minutes passed that dragged like days, but fortunately, Anne's third child was far more eager to enter the world than her second. The bells had barely struck the quarter-hour when the midwife looked up, beaming once more.

" _Een mooie meisje. Een zusje voor de jonge Prins."_

„A girl. Anne, a girl!" Margaret gripped her sister-in-law by the arm, alarmed at the fatigue written in every line of the younger woman's body. She knew the other woman had just been in labour for the better part of a day, but even so. Mary hadn't looked this exhausted when she gave birth to Phillip or Margaret. She knelt by the bed for a moment, wondering whether to try and shake Anne out of the stupor she seemed to be sliding into.

Before she could make the decision, however, the midwife was coming round the bed and reaching out a hand to pull her to her feet. Margaret went to protest – how dare this low woman touch her, a Dowager Duchess of Burgundy and a Princess of York besides – but the woman forestalled anything she might have said by placing her now swaddled niece in her arms.

Margaret looked down into the baby's face and let go of a breath she didn't even realise she'd been holding.

"Margaret."

"The whisper was deathly quiet, but Margaret heard it at once. She whirled around.

Anne was propping herself up on an elbow, struggling for breath. Her eyes were fixed on the baby in Margaret's arms.

"Margaret. She shall be Margaret, for her aunt and godmother. For the woman who has kept us all safe these past weeks, as her father asked."

"I am honoured, Anne," Margaret felt tears pricking at her eyes. There was something so final in Anne's voice. Something so unanswerable.

"Margaret. Griet. Our little white pearl."

She murmured the endearments into the tiny ear, keeping half an eye on Anne all the time. Her sister-in-law never responded, however. She slumped back into the blood-stained sheets with a heavy exhalation.

" _My Lady! Take the children and leave us be! We must look to the mother now!"_

The French was broken, the accent execrable, but Margaret didn't need to be told twice. Any fool could see that Anne was in a bad way, and Margaret was hardly that. Pausing only to sweep her new-born nephew up into her free arm, she swept from the room.

The physicians passed her as she left. So great was their need for urgency that they barely heeded protocol enough to give her room.

Margaret glanced back after them to see that the Queen's eyes had closed, as she slipped out of consciousness. In an instant, the realisation crashed over her that she might very well never see her sister-in-law alive again.

" _If only we'd had word of Richard,"_ she thought. _"If he'd only written or sent word, Anne might have fought harder. God knows she wanted nothing more than to do her duty as his Queen. If only we'd had word."_


	5. September 1485 - January 1486

_September 1485_

On the day of Anne's funeral, the ducal palace was swathed in black. Swathed in black for the Dowager Duchess's sister-in-law, the former Queen of England.

Margaret heard the bells tolling for the younger woman, and sighed mournfully.

She'd known Anne since she was a little girl trailing after George and Bella at Ludlow, Warwick or Fotheringhay. Although vivacious, headstrong Bella had always been her brothers' firm favourite of the Warwick girls, Margaret herself had always adored the winsome Anne, who had always been only too happy to let her more forceful older cousin dress her up and play with her hair as though she was little more than a great life-size doll. But even in childhood, Anne had never been the strongest. She'd always been a quiet little thing, one who looked rather as though any unexpected gust of wind might bowl her over.

Grief-stricken though she was, therefore, Margaret had to admit, even if only to herself, that she wasn't surprised that birthing twins had proved too much for the young Queen.

"Madam Margaret! Madam Margaret!"

A hammering on the door of her presence chamber startled Margaret out of her musings. She spun round from the window as her maid, Luise, swept to the door, grumbling under her breath about how her mistress was in mourning and this was highly irregular and ought not really to be permitted at all.

The man who fell across the threshold in exhaustion, however, was one who made Margaret hold up her hand to cut off Luise's whispered tirade.

" _Get him ale and a stool. Now!"_ she barked, before flying across the room to kneel at the man's side and chafe his hands between her own.

Luise clicked her tongue at the impropriety of her actions, but Margaret didn't care.

The last time she'd seen this man, he'd been little more than a boy and joined at the hip with her youngest brother, Richard. To see him here, now, gaunt and hollow-eyed with exhaustion, could mean only one thing.

Margaret caught her breath. She could scarcely bring herself to form words as Francis Lovell's eyelids flickered and she helped him to sit upon the presented stool.

"It's Dickon, isn't it?" she choked out.

Francis's lips tightened and he mustered the strength to nod.

"Dead, Lady Margaret," he managed in a hoarse whispered, "Slain by those vile traitors, the Stanleys."

The words went through Margaret's heart like a knife. Involuntarily, she squeezed her eyes shut against a hot wave tears and pressed her free hand to her mouth to stifle a sob.

Several long moments passed.

With an effort, Margaret controlled herself. God alone knew what Francis had been through to bring her these tidings. The least she could do in return was show him a calm face.

"You've done well to come to me, Lord Lovell," she whispered, stroking the hand that rested in hers, "Dickon would want you here, at his son's side. Rest now, and when you wake, I'll take you to swear allegiance to His Grace, Richard IV of England, France and Ireland."

As soon as the words left her mouth, she knew she'd said the right thing. Francis's face relaxed and he slipped into exhausted oblivion.

Margaret waited long enough to see him carried to a comfortable bed and then hurried down the passages to the nursery.

The twins were sleeping when she got there, their cradles standing end to end in front of the window embrasure to catch the autumn sunshine.

Margaret crossed the room to little Richard's cradle and stood looking down at him. As she watched, a ray of sunshine caressed the little boy's face, highlighting the golden strands in his fine, downy hair.

"It's all on you now, Dickon," she choked, pressing her lips together to keep from bursting into floods of tears, "It's all on you. You're our only hope that the sun may yet one day rise on an England ruled by the House of York."

Her nephew snuffled in his sleep, kicking slightly against his swaddling bands. Margaret held her breath. Heaven knew she would not be popular with the nursemaids and wet nurses if she woke her nephew.

Thankfully, little Dickon's eyes stayed closed. Margaret gazed down at him for a few moments longer and then slipped from the room, her devious mind already turning nineteen to the dozen.

* * *

 _January 1486_

"The Earl of Lincoln!"

Margaret's heart lurched at her herald's pronouncement. She whipped her head round.

A young man was bowing before her, who had such a look of her older sister Elizabeth that she knew who he must be at once, despite not having seen him in years.

"Jock!" She leaped to her feet and put her hand out for his kiss before pulling him up and into her arms.

"What are you doing here?! I'd begun to give up hope of anyone else making it out of England, at least for the moment!"

"I rode north from Bosworth, sought shelter at Furness Abbey. I've been hiding out there ever since, but all eyes are on London now, with the Tudor usurper having inveigled his way into Bess's marriage bed. I thought it wise to get out while I could."

Margaret nodded, seeing the sense in her nephew's words.

"He truly has done it then? Married Bess, the way he swore he would?"

"Did you truly expect him not to, Aunt Margaret? Loathe though he might be to admit it, Henry Tudor is too canny not to know that he truly owes his throne not to the fact that he triumphed on Bosworth Field, but to the fact that he has taken Bess as his bride."

Margaret pursed her lips, though she couldn't help but feel her heart leap with relief. Brief though her acquaintance with young Jock was, she could already tell he was a kindred spirit; that he too was in possession of a burning desire to see the House of York returned to its rightful place upon the throne of England.

"I suppose it was only to be expected. Still, it's a shame we won't be able to rely on her help to restore young Dickon."

Jock's eyes lit up at her last words.

"You truly are going to restore him, then? Or at least try?"

"Of course!" Margaret scoffed, "What do you take me for? A coward and a traitor?"

Jock fell to his knees before her.

"Oh, Aunt Margaret! You have my heart! My heart and my sword! When do we sail?!"

"Heavens! Not for years yet!" Margaret exclaimed, taken aback by her nephew's ferocity. "Do you not know your Ecclesiastes? _Woe to the land whose King is a child._ Dickon needs to get a lot older before we can even begin to think about invading England on his behalf, or with him at the head of our forces. But it's never too early to begin to muster support, so your loyalty is gratifying. Come, I'll take you to the nursery and you can swear allegiance to His Majesty yourself."

So saying, she reached down and helped Jock to his feet. Courtesy bred into him from the day he was born, he lost no time in proffering his arm for her to take.

They entered the nursery without ceremony, but it didn't take long for Jeanne, the twins' chief nursemaid, to spot them. Harassed, she blinked stupidly for a moment before her mouth twisted up into a wry grin.

" _Forgive us, My Lady,"_ she sighed in soft, tired French, _"We're not much in the mood for visitors today. Our teeth are giving us trouble, aren't they, little lord?"_

And indeed, little Dickon was grizzling fiercely, screwing up his face in scorn at the nurses' fruitless efforts to calm him.

Jeanne exhaled and took him into her arms, bouncing him lightly, but to little effect. Margaret watched the pair for a few moments, before her lips twitched indulgently.

" _I am to assume, no doubt, that Griet is sleeping soundly?"_

" _Naturellement, Madame. The little mademoiselle already knows how a Princess should behave,"_ Jeanne replied, her eyes softening as she glanced over to the cradle by the fireplace. Margaret's gaze followed hers, before she turned back to Jock.

"Our little King may have his mother's colouring, but he can be as ferocious as your late uncle when he wants something, Jock. Princess Margaret, on the other hand, is His Grace's opposite in every way. Hair as black as her father's, but a nature as sunny as her mother's."

Jock hummed in acknowledgement and then drew his sword with a sudden flourish. Jeanne flinched back, but before she could fully react, Jock had thrust the blade down into the rush matting and knelt, his hand on the mother-of-pearl encrusted hilt.

"Richard, King of England, Ireland and France, I pledge you my heart and my sword, from this day until my last day."

The strong young voice rang through the small chamber.

Temporarily distracted from his pain by the flurry of movement and the flash of light on the finely-beaten blade, the infant King stilled in Jeanne's arms. He gurgled and reached for his older cousin.

Margaret's breath caught in her throat as Jock rose and went to take the baby into the crook of his free arm. He might look awkward, juggling both a baby and his blade, but for a moment, the hope she still carried in her breast for the House of York had flared so brightly that it hurt.


	6. May 1486

_Only a short chapter this time, but this was too important a scene not to let it stand on its own. Enjoy!_

 **Part VI**

 _England, May 1486_

"Have you seen the latest dispatch from Burgundy?" Margaret Beaufort slammed open the door of her son's private chambers, her hawkish eyes flashing like steel in the sun as she snarled the words out.

Guards, alarmed at her fury, moved towards her, but the King held up a hand to halt them in their tracks before dismissing them with a look. Pushing back his chair, he turned in his seat to face her.

"Good Morrow to you too, Lady Mother," he said dryly, extending his hand to her.

Recalled to herself, even if only briefly, Margaret dipped down into a slight curtsy and kissed Henry's hand, before straightening up and slapping an unrolled sheaf of parchment down in front of him.

"Have you seen this?" She repeated, "The Dowager Duchess has had her niece and nephew paraded through Bruges, and proclaimed the boy Richard IV of England. On St George's Day, no less!"

Henry skimmed the closely-written lines and then lifted his shoulders in his characteristic Gallic shrug.

"To be quite frank, Lady Mother, I can't see why you're so worried."

"Can't see…" Margaret spluttered in shock, "Henry, the woman is openly challenging your right to the throne! Her words are treason against you. _And_ , if my spies are to be believed, she's already offered young Richard's hand to the Bretons for their heiress. I tell you, she's trying to set up an alliance to help her take England back!"

"The Bretons will never accept the Duchess's matchmaking," Henry said flatly, "Never. Young Lord Richard is far too young for Lady Anne. He's not even out of swaddling clouts yet, and she's half a lady. Besides, even if the Bretons were inclined to accept, do you really think King Louis would be willing to sit back and allow Brittany and Burgundy to enter into an alliance? No. Of course he wouldn't. That alliance could far too easily be turned on him, if they wanted it to be. The Spider King will never stand for that kind of threat on his borders. I assure you, Lady Mother, whatever she may think, Margaret of York's would-be entente is dead in the water. Don't give it another thought."

"And Lady Margaret's proclamation of her nephew as Richard IV? Are you going to tell me not to give that another thought either? How can you take this so calmly? Can you not see that boy is going to grow up to be a threat to you, if he isn't already?"

"Mother, please. Calm yourself and think for a moment," Henry raised his voice above his mother's rant. Not much, but enough to make her pause.

"So there's one of Richard of Gloucester's whelps in Burgundy. What does that matter, really? Did I not take King Edward IV's eldest daughter as my bride? Did Richard of Gloucester himself not once swear to uphold the rights of his brothers' daughters to the throne above his own? No one in their right mind would say the younger son's line should come before the eldest's line. More, need I remind you that Bess's belly is even now swelling with my child? It is merely a matter of time before I have a son to secure the Tudor line. And, with only a year between them, which loyal Englishman would choose to honour the claim of a Burgundian-born Lord of Gloucester over that of a Prince of Wales born in the country's ancient capital of Winchester?"

"Jock of Lincoln. Francis Lovell, Humphrey Stafford," Margaret retorted, but the tension in her face and shoulders lessened even as she spoke. Henry rose and put his hand to her cheek.

"Lowborn traitors and exiles, the lot of them," he said quietly, his lips twitching up into a smile, "No one we need worry about if Bess gives me a son."

Several seconds passed. Margaret dropped her head into a nod, "As you say, Your Grace. I apologise for disturbing you with my womanly concerns."

Henry exhaled, shaking his head, "There is no need to apologise, Lady Mother. I know you care for me deeply and your concern does you great credit," he said softly, bending his head to kiss her temple affectionately, "But be of good cheer, Lady Mother, and have faith, for I am confident all will yet be well. After all, the Lord kept me safe all those years in exile and brought me safely through Bosworth Field, so why would He desert us now? I repeat, have faith, for all will yet be well."


	7. September 1486 - Summer 1487

_For anyone wondering, Elizabeth of York's coronation has been shifted forward several months, as there is no Lovell-Stafford Rebellion in this AU. Not yet, at least. They're too busy shoring up young Dickon and little Griet in Burgundy._

 _September 1486_

"The Queen has given birth to a healthy son."

At the herald's words, Margaret Beaufort rose from her knees and crossed herself.

"God be praised. We needed a Prince."

" _England_ needed a Prince," her son corrected her sharply. He glanced at her and she, cowed by him as she was by no other man, not even her husband, the Earl of Derby, dipped her head in acknowledgement.

Henry paused, turning the apple he held in his hand. He raised it to his lips and took a bite, chewing it pensively as the herald dressed in his wife's livery remained kneeling before them.

"Arthur," he said at length, "Tell the Queen we are well pleased that, unlike her mother, she has secured the Succession so promptly, and that we wish for our son to be named Arthur, for the great King who once united these Isles from Camelot. After all, we hope that his birth will be the catalyst that unites England once more, after all these decades of being torn between the House of Lancaster and the House of York."

"Very good, Sire," the herald nodded, bowed and scurried off.

Silence reigned in the little room. Margaret reached out and put a hand on Henry's arm.

"Well done, my son. Well done," she said, her voice soft but fervent.

Henry nodded silently. Words failed him. Everything he had worked for in the past twelve months had depended upon the babe in Bess's belly being a boy. Everything. He'd prayed for it to be a boy, prayed more desperately than he'd prayed in years. But now that it was, he found he didn't actually know what to do. It was as though he'd been in a dark forest for years and had finally stumbled out into a meadow on its edge, only to find himself blinded by the sunlight.

"Go to her."

He jerked, startled by his mother's quiet urging.

"I'm sorry?"

"Go to her, Henry. I remember what it was like when you were born. I was so young, and I'd been so scared. I'd have given anything to have your father walk into the birthing chamber to see you. To see us. He couldn't. He was dead. You are not. Elizabeth needs to see you. Go."

Greatly daring, she nudged her son in the shoulder, prodding him lightly towards the door. Walking as though he were in a dream, he went.

* * *

 _Summer 1487_

"Elizabeth! Hurrah for Elizabeth!"

"God Save the Queen!"

"Long Live our Princess Bess!"

"Elizabeth! Elizabeth!"

The Londoners crowded the banks of the Thames, shouting for the Queen as she sailed down the river on her way to her coronation.

Hearing their joyful voices, Elizabeth leaned back against her golden velvet cushions and smiled to herself. The river was an unusual way to get to Westminster from the Tower, she knew, but she'd begged Henry to let her sail rather than ride for two reasons. One, she'd always been an indifferent horsewoman, despite her father's best efforts. Cecily and Mary had been by far the best riders among the York Princesses, and, proud as she was, Bess couldn't risk her younger sister outshining her in her own coronation procession, however slightly. Second, and the argument she'd made to Henry to get her way, taking a barge down the river might make for a shorter procession, but it was a way of allowing more people to see her, for they could line the banks on both sides and the Bridge, with all its shops and houses. The Londoners had loved her since she'd been a flaxen-headed little girl, the darling of her father's court. She wanted to share her special day with as many of them as possible.

There was, however, one clear reason why Queens did not take barges to Westminster Abbey. The Thames was a tidal river. Further upstream, past the Tower, it didn't matter as much, but here, where the water narrowed and eddied and was forced between the arches of the bridge? It was a very different kettle of fish.

The bargemen rowing Elizabeth knew that. As such, they had planned their part in the coronation procession to the finest detail, including ensuring she would be rowed through the most dangerous stretch of water midway between tides, when the water would be at its calmest.

Unfortunately, their concerns had never reached the ears of the Earl Marshal, who had planned the festivities. Several of the pageants held in Elizabeth's honour had taken longer than they should.

Besides, unbeknownst to anyone but Elizabeth's closest ladies, Elizabeth herself was in the early stages of a second pregnancy. She had been suffering fatigue and nausea that morning. Not badly enough to stop her coronation procession from going ahead, but severely enough that it had taken her slightly longer than it should to be dressed that morning. She'd been about half an hour behind schedule before she'd even left the Tower.

The end result was that, as they neared London Bridge, the coxswain felt the nose of the boat begin to be tugged away from him. He glanced up at the sky and swore silently as he took full note of where the sun was.

Not wanting to alarm the young Queen, he flashed a subtle glance at his two lead oarsmen. Reading the concern in his eyes, they set their shoulders and raised the pace just a few beats faster than they had been. The sooner they got the Queen safely to Westminster the better. There was nothing for it. They were going to have to try and shoot the bridge.

Years later, those unfortunate enough to get a first-hand view of the next minutes would swear blind that it was that extra bit of speed that proved fatal.

The Queen's barge hit the whirling eddies beneath the arches of the bridge slightly faster than most boats did, and was sucked into the slipstream. It smacked hard against one of the wide stone arches and spun away, turning over as it did so.

There was a collective gasp from the crowd, and scores pushed their way to the edge of the bridge, straining to rush down the steps at either end to try to help.

Sadly, the crushing mass of people with good intentions only added to the chaos, and, by the time the sergeants and guards had managed to restore even some semblance of order, it was too late.

Elizabeth of York's coronation barge had sunk with all hands.


	8. Christmas 1487

_Christmas 1487_

" _What a difference a year makes,"_ Henry mused to himself, as he sat on the dais, watching as the hordes of courtiers beneath him went through the motions of the Christmas feast.

Christmas 1486 had been triumphant, with Bess fresh out of confinement and riding high on having secured the succession with a healthy, squalling boy. Henry himself had felt safer than he'd ever remembered feeling – there had been no major rebellions against his reign, not then, not yet, and Arthur's birth had meant that the new Tudor Roses of red and white were already beginning to bloom, less than a year since they had been planted on the steps of Westminster Abbey. Why, he and Bess had already begun to whisper between themselves about planning for the next one, whom they'd title Duke of York for the sake of her father's memory. The courtiers had picked up on their newfound confidence and had begun to celebrate the fact that the bloody Cousins' War had finally come to an end, as well as the Holy Season.

The disaster at Bess's would-be coronation had changed everything. Oh, Henry had determined to make a fist of the celebration regardless. He'd had Arthur brought up from the nursery at Farnham, and ordered the boy's godmother, Cecily, to carry the toddler into Mass preceded by hallooing trumpeters to underline the boy's status as Duke of Cornwall and heir to the Tudor throne. He'd done his best to overcome his scruples about luxury and gluttony and put on the same glittering show of majesty as he'd done both previous Christmases in his reign, if only for the sake of continuity. Yet, it all seemed hollow this year. Hollow and brittle, as though Bess had taken the heart of the English Court into the grave with her.

It was the woman's touch, Henry decided, as he gazed absently down on the grand tables laden with food. His mother had always said that no household was ever quite complete without a woman to be its mistress, to be the domestic balance to its fearsome, proud lord. Henry had never quite believed her till he'd married Bess, but looking at how empty Westminster seemed without Bess at his side at its head, the statement suddenly rang true.

And if it were true, then what, in effect, was the country, if not the greatest household of them all?

Like all his best decisions, it came to him in a flash of resolve. He needed a Queen. Sooner rather than later.

But where was he to get one? His mother would doubtless try to push a foreign match, claiming that he needed the validation on the international stage, now that he had England firmly under his thumb.

Henry could see the sense in his mother's thinking, but he wasn't sure how realistic it was. He'd barely been on the throne two years. The Tudor claim was still so young that he doubted many major foreign powers would take him seriously, were he to press a suit for any of their sisters, daughters or nieces. And an embattled realm like Brittany or Florence would do him little good as an ally. They'd be too embroiled in their own affairs to be able to lend him much support in England, should he need it. If anything, they'd expect him to defend them, and that he couldn't afford to do. Not yet, at any rate.

And then there was the matter of the Succession. Arthur was fifteen months old now, and seemed healthy enough, but children's lives were fragile things, only too easily snuffed out like candle flames. And if Arthur died, then so too did the embodiment of the unification of Lancaster and York. There was no guarantee that the numerous former Yorkists who had sworn allegiance after Bosworth and had thus far toed the line would bow before another child of Henry's if that child didn't also carry the line of York within its veins. Not with young Lord Richard of Gloucester growing older day by day, and by all accounts thriving in the sanctuary afforded by his aunt Margaret's court in Burgundy.

No, Henry realised, if he wanted to make sure England stayed loyal to the Tudors, whether or not Arthur lived, then his next Queen would have to possess the Yorkist claim within herself just as Bess had.

But, even assuming he might be able to get the dispensation to marry his wife's nearest kinswoman, Cecily was married. She'd been married to John Welles since the beginning of the year. The match had been his mother's doing. She'd pleaded for it, saying it would honour her brother to have him wed a Princess of York, and also that it would strengthen the invisible knots of matrimony that tied the Beauforts and the Plantagenets together, to have his uncle marry his wife's sister.

At the time, Henry had seen no reason not to allow the match. It was only now, with circumstances so greatly changed, that he found himself ruing the fact that Cecily was not still free and that he couldn't even attempt to wed her. Oh, Cecily had younger sisters, Anne and Bridget and Catherine, but Bridget was pledged to be a nun and Anne and Catherine were still just children. There was no way he'd be able to reconcile himself to the necessity of marrying either of them.

Henry swallowed. Now that he looked at the facts of the matter in the cold light of day, there was really only one woman, or even girl, in England that not only possessed within herself all that he required in a Queen, but whom he might – _might –_ be able to obtain the dispensation to marry.

* * *

"You want to marry _who?!"_ Margaret gasped, hand flying to her mouth. She took a step backwards, blinking, secretly hoping that by doing so, she might be able to coax her son into retracting his previous statement.

"Lady Margaret of Clarence."

Now that Henry had convinced himself of the necessity of doing all he could to make the young Lady Margaret his Queen, he was able to meet his mother's censure with a cool stare, his head tipped backwards slightly to make himself look just that bit taller by enabling him to look down on her imperiously.

"Lady Margaret is just a child!"

"She's fourteen, Lady Mother. Which, as you should know only too well, is plenty old enough to be a wife and mother. Besides, it's not her age that attracts me to her, it's her Yorkist blood."

"Her father was a traitor twice over! He was attainted!"

"An attainder can be overturned. If she's my wife, it'll be no threat to us to do so. Her brother can't press his claim; he died of the measles over three years ago and everyone knows that," Henry retaliated, but Margaret continued as though he hadn't even spoken.

"George of Clarence was drowned in a vat of wine by his own brother, for Christ's sake! Do you really think this is the kind of bloodline you want in your Queen?"

"The fathers shall not be put to death for the children, neither shall the children be put to death for the fathers: every man shall be put to death for his own sin."

"The Lord is slow to anger and abundant in loving kindness, forgiving iniquity and transgression; but He will by no means clear the guilty, visiting the iniquity of the fathers on the children to the third and the fourth generations," Margaret retorted, her mouth pinched in disapproval.

Even as she spoke, however, she knew that, if her son was truly determined to make Lady Margaret of Clarence his wife, she'd move Heaven and Earth to get her for him. She'd never refused her precious only son anything he'd truly wanted.

That didn't mean she wasn't going to push him to prove he was serious, however. She raised her head, fixing her son with a gimlet eye, as though he were still a little boy, one who had been caught scrumping in the orchard.

"We'll go to St Albans' as soon as the Christmas season is over. You will swear to me on the saint's shoulder blade that you have truly thought this through and you know exactly what taking Lady Margaret as your wife and Queen will mean."

Silence, profound and relieved, filled the room at her words. Henry looked her up and down, and then bobbed his head in the merest hint of a nod, so small and so swift that if Margaret hadn't known him as well as she did, she would have missed it entirely. Then he came to her and kissed her hand in a rare display of chivalry.

"Take Lady Margaret into your household at Coldharbour. I shall write to Rome at once."


	9. Spring 1489

This may seem like a bit of an odd chapter, but I thought it was high time we saw some reaction to all the English events from the Burgundian side of things. Also, I intend for this to stand as a sort of watershed in the story, as the pieces start to fall into place. As things stand, the next chapter should take place in 1500 or thereabouts and begin to take us to the point at which Dickon and Griet are old enough to press their own claims to England's throne...

 _Burgundy, Spring 1489_

The cluster of men filed into the room, muttering quietly among themselves. Margaret skimmed her eyes over them, silently counting them, ensuring everyone was there who ought to be. Satisfied, she nodded to her trusted lady, Luise, to shut the door behind them all, before sweeping to her place at the head of the table, her golden curls elegantly and fearsomely coiffed in a way that drew the eye.

The gentlemen bowed as one, then took their seats as Margaret waved them down. She paused, then slapped a thin diplomatic packet on the table as she sat herself.

"Gentlemen, thank you for coming. You all know why I have called you."

"The news out of England," It was Francis Lovell who spoke, his voice heavy, and Margaret nodded.

"Indeed, Lord Lovell. We need to decide how to react."

"I don't see why we didn't do anything before! Henry Tudor was weak without a York girl at his side. We could have fallen on his lands and swept into London easily. The capital has always stood for the House of York, they would have come out in force for us, if we'd only gone across while we could. But we've missed our chance. Now that the blasted Welshman has married my cousin, his hold on the throne is as strong as it's ever been, curse the devil!" Jock de La Pole burst out, his eyes flashing as his hot temper flared.

Margaret let him say his piece, and then turned her head to hold his gaze, arching an eyebrow.

"We've been over this, Jock. You know why we didn't invade last year. England has been in the throes of civil war for decades now. It's only just beginning to recover. There is not an Englishman alive who would willingly stand for a King not even breeched as opposed to a grown man with a son in the cradle. No. If we are to provide England with a credible alternative to Tudor's rule, we must and shall wait until Dickon and Griet are old enough to be more than figureheads and puppets."

Jock flushed at her rebuke and made to retort, but Margaret cut him off, though her eyes and tone softened as she spoke again, "I like it as little as you do, Jock, but it must be done."

"No one's denying that, My Lady, but I must admit, I am surprised the Pope agreed to grant Henry Tudor a dispensation to marry Lady Margaret. I would have thought her being the late Queen Elizabeth's first cousin made that impossible," Humphrey Stafford admitted. Margaret shrugged.

"Vast amounts of gold tend to grease the cogs in the wheels of Rome so that they dance to any tune the piper desires, I have found, Lord Humphrey. I'll not deny that knowing yet another of my nieces has wed the Welsh usurper grieves me, but what's done is done and we must adapt to make the best of it. At the very least, the delay in their match has gained us some time. If the so-called Prince Arthur dies now, then any would-be heir to the throne will be at least four years younger than our Richard. That is a significant difference, and one you can bet your best destriers that Henry Tudor will be only too aware of. Now, I have two other pieces of news, both of which I am sure you will all be delighted to hear."

"Oh?"

There was a general murmur of curiosity and Margaret allowed herself a smile as she leaned back in her seat to survey the room.

"I have received overtures from Sir William Stanley, younger brother to the Earl of Derby. It seems he regrets his moves at Bosworth and wishes to make up for them."

The shock in the room was palpable. Francis Lovell, at least, was gulping like a fish as he tried to make sense of this new throw of the dice.

"But Madam Margaret!" he spluttered at last, "You cannot be thinking of taking the man seriously. He's the one who led the charge against your brother at Bosworth!"

Margaret turned her steely blue gaze on Francis, her face as impassive as her younger brother's had once been.

"I'm well aware of that, thank you, Lord Lovell. Which is why I am only telling you all of this now. I wasn't willing to allow Sir William here until I had proof of his good intentions, so I told him, that if he was serious, I would expect him to leave England and go to Scotland, to act as my envoy to the new King James, congratulating him on his accession to the throne and suggesting that he consider taking my niece Princess Margaret of Gloucester as his bride when she comes of age. My spies tell me that Sir William rode for Edinburgh within the week."

Despite herself, Margaret smirked at the looks on her confidantes' faces. Bold and spirited York Princess though she might be, it wasn't often she managed to render all the men around her speechless all at once.

As usual, it was the blustering Humphrey Stafford who recovered his immense confidence first.

"Well, that is indeed excellent news, Your Grace, but if I might be so bold… Do you really think, Madam Margaret, that King James will be receptive to Sir William's proposal? There is no doubting that Princess Margaret is a pretty child of an excellent bloodline, but she is not yet four and King James is newly sixteen. He may not feel he can wait long enough to marry Princess Margaret."

"That, Lord Humphrey, is a gamble I am willing to take for now. King James has always said he wishes for an Anglo-Scottish match, as indeed his father did, and as the Lancastrian usurper has no daughter to offer yet, it only makes sense to suggest Princess Margaret as his bride. If he is anything like my older brother, King James may even relish the chance to sow some wild oats before he is pushed into matrimony. I am told that his relationship with Lady Marion Boyd is common knowledge at the Scottish Court, after all."

Lord Humphrey nodded at her words, seeing the sense in them, "Very well, My Lady. We shall all pray that Sir William has success with his endeavours, then. Might I ask what the second piece of pleasing news you have for us is?"

Margaret nodded, "I have managed to persuade the Estates to grant me Oostkerke Castle for my own use. I intend to make it over to Dickon to be his household. Our little King is getting to the age now where I can't be seen to be taking too great an interest in his upbringing. Oh, I intend to have him with me when I travel the country, so he can see what goes into ruling, but if I keep him too close, people will start to say he's still tied to my leading strings, and that we can't have. Any blot on his reputation, however small, could come back to bite us later. No, gentlemen, I have decided. He must have his own household, and given he and Princess Margaret were born at Damme, Oostkerke seems the perfect place for it."

Margaret paused to let her words sink in, raking those around her with her eyes before settling on two of them, "Lord Lovell, Lord John, I wish for you to take him there and raise him. He knows and likes you both and you knew his father. Between you, you ought to be able to raise him into a son my younger brother could be proud of."

Francis and John looked at each other, then back at her as the heat flooded their cheeks. To be given the custody of the young King Richard was not an honour either of them had looked for, particularly not John, who had believed until that moment that his bastardy would preclude him from such an exalted station, even at the cultured Burgundian Court. They fell to their knees before Margaret, gabbling their thanks and protestations of their loyalty. Knowing it would only behove her to play the game of courtly love, Margaret let them, before waving them back to their seats.

"Enough," she chided lightly, "Save your fine words and repay me by raising Dickon into the Prince and King we all know he can be. I, meanwhile, will turn my attention to seeing if we can't find him a bride who will bring with her some foreign support. Perhaps a Portuguese girl, if I can find one. After all, England has a long-standing alliance with Portugal. Being seen to support that can only help Richard's claim to the throne."

"Yes, Madam Margaret," The two men chorused, before she stood up, dismissing those around her with a wave of her hand.

"I think we're done for now, gentlemen, but as always, thank you for your loyalty to the House of York. I swear on the Holy Bible that we will see this through. We'll restore King Richard IV to his rightful place on the throne just as soon as ever we can. You will all be restored to your rightful places at the centre of power in England. You have my word on that."

As she spoke, Margaret's hand came up to cover the enamelled rose pinned above her heart. It was a calculated gesture, one guaranteed to show her loyalty. Recognising that, the lords around her burst into applause. Margaret swept down into a curtsy of acknowledgement, but kept her head high, channelling her mother Cecily as she did so. Her mother had adapted to whatever circumstances Fate had thrown at her, had been both confidante of a Lancastrian Queen and mother to two Yorkist Kings. Margaret would need every bit of her mother's cunning if she was to keep her niece and nephew safe over the next ten to twelve years until young Dickon could fight for his throne in his own right. But she would also need to channel another family member. Her cousin the 16th Earl of Warwick had been the main reason her older brother had become King of England at all. Margaret had every intention of following in his footsteps and restoring the House of York to the pinnacle of its power, its royal power.


	10. 1500

_England, 1500_

"God's Blood, Mother! Will you never let this go?!"

The King's shout, muffled though it was by the heavy oaken door, rang through the small audience chamber. Startled, the lords and ladies shuffled in their finery, trading uneasy glances. King Henry never lost his temper like that. Stern and dour and tight-fisted he might be, but he never shouted so. Particularly not at a woman. What in Heaven's name had Lady Richmond said?

The door suddenly flew open. Every person in the room immediately tried to look as though they hadn't just been eavesdropping for all they were worth.

With a quickness that belied her years, Lady Richmond the King's Mother, leapt in front of her son, preventing him from storming out.

"No, _Your Grace_! I will not let this go! I have held my tongue for long enough! That girl is no good to you. No good to England! Eleven years you've been married! Eleven years, and all she's given you is three girls! What if Arthur dies, hmm? What do we do then? Are we just to roll over and let everything you've worked for – everything _we've_ worked for, slide into the lap of that half-grown whelp in Burgundy? You need to set her aside and marry a woman who can give you a son!"

The King coloured with fury at his mother's words. Those close enough could see how his hands curled into fists as he struggled to stop himself from striking the elderly woman before him.

When he spoke, however, his voice was measured, though every syllable seemed to quaver with the effort.

"What grounds would you have me use, Lady Richmond? Queen Margaret was just fifteen when I wed her. Just fifteen. And I assure you, I know women well enough to know she was a maid without touch of man when I first bedded her."

There were scandalised gasps at how free the King was being with his words, but he ignored them, his entire being focused on his mother.

"Would you have me claim her as having been in a precontract? None would believe me. Not with her mother and father both long dead and her guardians having all been more focused on their own childrens' marital prospects than hers. Would you have me claim our marriage unconsummated, though the Princesses Margaret, Elizabeth and Mary all yet live and breathe upon this Earth? You know as well as I that that is impossible. Would you have me plead affinity to her by blood, given I married her own fair cousin before her? I cannot believe that, for to do that would be to challenge my dispensation and indeed the very notion of papal infallibility, and you are far too pious a woman to want to do that."

The words were relentless, flying at Margaret Beaufort like a bushel of arrows loosed from the archer's bow. The courtiers watched, agog. There wasn't a man or woman in the room who hadn't dreamed of the haughty King's Mother being taken down a peg or two, but they were all astonished beyond words that it was the King himself who was doing it. They'd thought the two too close for His Majesty ever to take his mother to task so publicly.

As though their thoughts had been blaring hunting horns, the King suddenly stopped short, realising as he did so that he and his mother were no longer in the privacy of his bedchamber. Swallowing, he collected himself with a visible effort.

"You are right to be concerned at the Spanish reluctance to send the Infanta to England. I shall raise it with Seňor Puebla on the morrow. But I will hear no more about setting my wife aside. _Queen Margaret_ will remain my wife until the day death cleaves us asunder, and you would do well to remember that, _Lady Richmond_."

There was no mistaking the deliberate stress that Henry Tudor placed on both women's titles. Lady Richmond flinched backwards at the reminder of her legal rank. The King seized the opportunity to pass her by.

He crossed the small room in three long strides, jaw twitching as he regained his self-control. On the threshold of the next room, as the guards threw the doors wide for him, he paused. Though he did not look back, his voice rang out over his shoulder.

"Never let it be said that I am not a grateful, patient and indulgent son, husband and father. But even Job's patience had its limits. Take care, Lady Mother, for you are treading dangerously close to the end of mine."

* * *

 _Burgundy, 1500_

Margaret swept into the room, a blinding smile on her lips. Dickon looked up from his copy of Giles' 'On The Government of Princes', his own lips quirking up into a smile as his eyes met hers.

"You look happy, Aunt Margaret," he said softly, "May I ask just what has you looking so merry tonight?"

"Indeed you may, My Lord," Margaret chuckled, taking advantage of the fact that they were alone to stop and card her fingers through his soft fair hair, which was so like his uncles' and mother's, "I have just heard from Vienna. Maximilian has agreed to let you marry his illegitimate daughter Margareta. He intends to send her here at once, along with an army of 12,000 Landesknechte, and the funds to pay them as her dowry."

For a moment, Dickon's eyes sparkled, before the light in them snuffed out as quickly as a window might be shuttered.

"His _illegitimate_ daughter? And you are pleased by this, Aunt Margaret? I rather thought you'd want a higher-ranking bride for me than the Emperor's bastard."

"Well, if I were left to my own devices, yes," Margaret admitted, "But let's be practical, Dickon. I may have raised you and Griet to know yourselves as the rightful King and Princess of England, but you've been children these past fifteen years. That's fifteen years the Tudor usurper has had to sink his claws into England and to seek international recognition of his right to rule. It's going to take quite something to dislodge him now, particularly since the Catholic Monarchs have been in discussion over their daughter Catalina's dowry and her match to the supposed Prince of Wales. With all the money that's pouring into their treasury from the New World, they have an immense amount of influence in Europe and they're using it to back him, not you. It's a blow and one I most certainly did aneed all the help we can get to unseat the Tudors from the throne. I don't think we can realistically be so proud as to spurn Maximilian's offer of an army, even if the bride he's offering with it isn't quite as blue-blooded as we might have hoped. And, on the positive side, Margareta is already twenty. You won't have to wait to begin trying for a family. If you could take England with a son already in the cradle, it would make the Yorkist restoration that bit easier."

Dickon considered his aunt's words, absentmindedly chewing the corner of his mouth as he did so. Margaret watched him fondly, stifling a teary chuckle as she saw what he was doing. She doubted he knew he did it, but it was little habits like that that marked Dickon as his father's son, in a way that his fair hair and blue-grey eyes did not.

"Let her come," he said at last, "Let her come and we will be betrothed, if that's what it takes to win Maximilian's army. But I won't marry her just yet. I've always sworn I'll marry on English soil, as befits an English King. I mean to keep that vow. But, as a sign of good faith, I'll be betrothed to Margareta here in Mechelen, and she'll sail with me and Griet and Jock when we sail for Scotland later this year."

Margaret's jaw dropped. "Scotland? You mean to sail for Scotland?"

"I do indeed, Aunt Margaret. The sooner the better, ideally."

When Margaret's shock proved too much for her to speak, Dickon exhaled, rose, and guided her to a stool. He helped her sit down upon it and then knelt before her, a strong young hand on her knee.

"You know William Stanley reports to me now, not you? Well, he has been making intimations recently that King James is beginning to wonder whether throwing his lot in with the Tudors might not be the better way to go about securing himself an Anglo-Scottish alliance, that he's losing patience with my, and I quote, 'tired, stagnated claims to the throne that no one does anything about'. Rumour has it that James of Scotland is considering sending envoys to treat for the hand of the supposed Princess Margaret Tudor, though he is still, as yet, betrothed to Griet."

Margaret flushed, "Perfidious – How dare he…!"

"I have no intention of letting him, Aunt Margaret," Dickon reassured her, cutting across her spluttering indignation, "I intend to take Griet to Edinburgh and let her loose on him. You know yourself how proud and fierce she can be. I dare any man in Europe to take another wife under her flashing eyes and pert, pointed nose, even one as barbarous as a Scot."

Despite herself, Margaret had to smother a laugh at the mental image her nephew's words presented.

All the same, however, she couldn't help the way her heart sank at the thought of her closest kin leaving the safety of the shelter she had so painstakingly crafted them in Burgundy. She'd already lost so many of her family. The thought of possibly losing the twins as well as was almost more than she could bear. She reached down to take her nephew's hand in hers, tracing the faint lines on his warm, calloused palm.

"Dickon…" she began. Traitorous tears choked her and she had to swallow hard and begin again, though even as she tried, her words failed her.

"You're only fifteen," she whispered at last.

"I'm only three years younger than my father was when he commanded the vanguard at Barnet and Tewkesbury. Than Uncle Edward was when he won the throne of England on the field at Towton," Dickon returned gently.

He squeezed her hand, then rose so that he could place a hand on her shoulder.

"Indeed, many would say that I'm already a man grown, Aunt Margaret. Don't get me wrong, I know how much you've sacrificed to keep the hope of a Yorkist restoration alive and I am forever grateful, but you don't have to do it all any more. It's past time I was seen to be doing something for the sake of my own claim. So, Scotland first, to secure James's backing by wedding him to Griet, and then, as soon as the time is right, England."

"England," Margaret echoed, hope suddenly rising like a wave in her breast. Dickon heard the leap in her voice and smiled down at her.

"We'll have you riding into London with all the honour of the Princess you are yet," he promised, "With all the honour of a Princess and a Queen Mother."

Tears sprang to Margaret's eyes at his oath and she closed her eyes to force them back. She heard a rustle of velvet, and, when she opened them, Dickon was kneeling at her feet, his fair head bent.

There was no need for him to ask. She knew what he wanted, what he needed. She stretched out a hand, using every bit of her regal training to keep it from shaking as she placed it on his head.

" _Deus et Christi vobiscum, fillius meum,"_ she breathed, blessing him in his venture, as she knew Richard or Anne would do, were they here to see their son and heir preparing to do as generations of their family had done before him and fight for what was his by right.


End file.
